The Storm Comes to an End
Title: The Storm Comes to an End
Author: Enjorous
Recipient: myyrdneopia
Prompt: Fidelias/Marcus. Whenever. Old, young, your choice.
Word Count: ~2200
Disclaimer: Sole rights belong to Jim Butcher, author takes no profit, only fun from this story.
Marcus was cold. Not just cold, but cold. He had at least another three hours of daylight left, and then could make camp. Of course camp would only consist of a snow trench he’d have to dig with his gladius, a bed of whatever greenery he could find (if he could find any at all) and his cloak wrapped around him. Even if he had the ability, and materials to make fire out here it would have been a bad idea. If the melted snow didn’t soak him through to the bone or melt down his shelter; than it would give away his position and bring the Icemen down on him.
He continued through the snow, dragging a second cloak behind him to obscure the foot prints that his boots left; it was good field craft even if the blowing snow would cover up his tracks in a few minutes. He clutched his left hand close to his side. All legionaries in the north knew how to use fire crafting to keep them warm, and to keep frostbite at bay. It helped, but it wasn’t magic, like everything that fire crafting had its limitations; especially for someone like Marcus who wasn’t particularly skilled with fire crafting.
He looked down at his hand; the tips of two fingers were tinged bright red with the first signs of frostbite. Unbuckling the first two buckles of his lorica, the legionaire tucked his hands between his lorica and his tunic. The fury crafted steel would retain heat longer, and wouldn’t gather snow for frost and helped his hands to fight off the frost bite.
He kept going, if he stopped for too long without shelter hypothermia would catch up with him quickly. In the distance, maybe a legion mile away, were two hills that formed a narrow valley barely big enough for two men to walk abreast through; a perfect place for Marcus to make camp.
But the time he got to those hills the sun had sunk low on the horizon; sliding his side arm easily out of scabbard with a clear ring. He began hacking at the snow in short steady strokes, careful to manage his exertion; sweating would be another easy way to earn him a place in an early grave. It would be easy if he had any watercraft to his name; he did, but not much, it would take the better part of his week to change his face. A skill that he rarely needed. He chopped the snow up, and using his second cloak scooped it out of his trench piling it up on the north and south ends as a good windbreak.
“There,” He said shivering, “Now if only I had a crow begotten fire and something more than trail rations this might actually be quite comfortable.” He laid down his cloak on the bottom of the trench and hopped in. It wouldn’t be comfortable, but it would do the job for the evening.
Marcus could only hope that he was close to the Icemen’s camp. Another day or two like this and he wouldn’t have enough food to make it back, at least not with all of his fingers intact. Tossing his leather pack down into the trench he headed for the top of the taller, north hill. He scanned the horizon for any trace of the enemy camp. Knowing all too well that that the Icemen wouldn’t need a fire (or potentially shelter); he had little hope of spotting their camp. What hope he did have lay in the captives; more so in their treatment at the Icemen. The Icemen had proven themselves, since the founding of Alera, more than capable, and even brutal in battle; but surely even those savages would have respect for the women and children that they took. They may be beasts but they should still realize that if they hurt the hostages they took from the lumber camp that the entire might of the Aleran Legions would come down upon them.
Marcus was right; there was just a thin curl of smoke that peaked over the edge of a hill only a few miles from his own shelter. It was then that he set his plan into motion. He slid down the side of the hill back to his trench and jumped in. Just a few feet under the surface it was much warmer. Still below freezing of course, but warmer none the less and he no longer had to worry about the bite of the wind making him colder. He pulled his pack out and grabbed one of the few trail biscuits he had left. He hoped that when he found the Icemen they would have edible food; he would have no way of feeding the survivors for the day and a half trek back to the shield wall.
Tucking his left hand in to his crotch to continue to warm it he tore into one of the half frozen trail biscuit. He couldn’t help but snicker to himself that the ice in it made it taste a little better and go down a might easier. Once he’d finished his meager evening meal he took his water skin and began filling it up with snow; he’d tuck that under his cloak as he slept and it would be water by morning. Dehydration was a soldier’s worst enemy in any climate; but most didn’t realize that it was even more a danger in the cold. And battle undoubtedly compounded that problem.
As soon as the wan sunlight disappeared over the horizon Marcus fell into a light sleep; between the cold and the threat of an enemy patrol he would not sleep deeply tonight.
~~**~~**~~**~~
The next morning came earlier than it should have; the sun hadn’t even peaked its head over the horizon (indeed it would be at least three hours to sunrise), but Marcus had used a trick once taught to him by a Cursor for waking up early. Before going to sleep he’d tapped his head the same number of times as the number of hours that he wanted to sleep. In this instance it was five, and sure enough five hours later he was awake.
Pulling the skin from under his cloak he took two long pulls from it, and took another trail ration from his pack. He had two more, and he’d need them for the return trip; he’d have to go hungry this morning.
Wasting no precious time he didn’t bother to destroy his shelter and hide all trace that he’d been there. In a few hours it wouldn’t matter; either the Icemen would be dead or he would. He took his water skin, but left his pouch; unnecessary encumbrances could get him killed at this point.
Using earth crafting to strengthen himself he started out at an easy run; even not on a fury enhanced causeway he’d be able to hold this pace for hours without tiring. With luck he’d be able to find most of the Icemen guards asleep.
His hand still ached fiercely from frostbite; the possibility that he might even lose his hand gnawed at the back of his head. At least it’ll be my left; Marcus thought, at least I’ll still be able to use a sword. It was a grim thought; there wasn’t much for a centurion with one hand to do in a legion. He pushed it out of his mind as he neared the camp.
Dropping into a low crouch, without breaking his stride, Marcus came to a large mound of icy snow that served as the palisade for the Iceman’s small camp. It was built up in such a way that if he tried going through it he’d bring the bulk of it down on top of him and alert the enemy to his presence. There was only one way built into the snow wall and it was manned by two guards.
If I’m going to lose my hand I may use it while I have it, he thought as he took the knife that was hidden in his boot into his offhand; it hurt just to grip it. He shook his hand out, trying to force more blood in it; in this task he was only moderately successful. The centurion crept as quietly as he could on the fresh powder as he neared the entrance. His gladius held tightly in his right hand he broke into a dead sprint, calling up all of his strength into the throwing the knife, he hit the first guard right in the throat. The vaguely human form collapsed to the ground; his partner turned to look just in time to find Marcus in a lunge. The fury tempered steel of the gladius tore right through the unarmored guard. Both went down with a barely audible whisper.
He continued into the camp, there were structures inside the wall made of a series of ice and snow formed into perfectly bricks. The entrances to these were narrow and forced him to his knees to enter. He found the largest of them and crawled in. They were warmer than a building made of ice had any right to be. Sleeping inside were almost a dozen of the icemen. Gladius in hand Marcus began cutting their throats as they slept. He felt no remorse knowing that if their places were switched they would have no trouble cutting his throat. One began to rouse but he drove his short sword through its chest with only the sound of breaking ribs.
He left there as swiftly as he entered. The camp was small, as were the raiding parties; but a score of icemen could kill a legionnaire in a matter of seconds in a one on one fair fight. If he hurried he should still be able to kill most in their sleep.
He crossed the courtyard into a slightly smaller ice house and repeated the same process of killing another six as they slept. Crawling back out, he heard a scream. Not a scream of an Iceman, but that of a human child. He ran to the last building, bigger than the others, with a higher room and a door big enough for Marcus to walk through without so much as ducking his head.
Three icemen were huddled in the corner standing over something or someone. The screaming child? Rage flooded through him as he charged all three of the icemen, these were both armed and armored, all other arms and armor he’d seen were at the feet of the rough beds that he found the Ice men on.
These were armored in what looked like rough hewn leather armor with metal helms, and armed with long spears tipped with razor sharp heads.
He crouched down and lunged at when he’d covered most of the distance. The prisoners all stopped to look at him; they were all dumbfounded, after the first day they’d given up hope of seeing a rescue, and now here was a centurion who’d made it through the entire camp of hostel forces and burst through the door just in time to save a poor boy.
Marcus’s sword lashed out just as the most alert of the Icemen brought his spear to bear and cut the haft of it in two. The spear tip clattered to the ground a second before the back of the centurion’s fury enhanced hand met the thing’s jaw sending it off balance. With a short swing, he brought the gladius across its neck, separating head from shoulders.
The other two turned around and thrust with their spears; able to parry the first one the second one struck him in the center of his breastplate. He slid on the floor putting his hand against the packed snow to arrest his slide. He took off in a runners sprint, heading straight for he ducked between them and took one of them down at the knee.
He fell hard; in that amount of pain he lost track of his spear and before he could realize his mistake his own spear tore through his throat and his spine, sending the Iceman to the ground. The other, in panic, began fighting desperately using short thrusts and rough chops. Even without the speed of a windcrafter, it wasn’t hard to dodge the iceman, only slightly harder was coming up underneath his breastplate to find the soft target underneath.
The mess, not to mention the smell, was noticeable.
Marcus flicked the blood off his sword before returning it to its scabbard, “It’s okay.” He told the prisoners, “You’re safe now.”
“Where’s the rest of the legion?” A young girl of about ten asked.
“I’m sorry,” Marcus replied, “I’m the only rescue you’re getting. Now help me get together all the supplies we can carry, we’re going to leave at first light.”
All the former hostages looked at him with a sense of awe and fear. But they would be safe, and hopefully by nightfall they’d be safely behind the shield wall, and back with their families.
Author: Enjorous
Recipient: myyrdneopia
Prompt: Fidelias/Marcus. Whenever. Old, young, your choice.
Word Count: ~2200
Disclaimer: Sole rights belong to Jim Butcher, author takes no profit, only fun from this story.
Marcus was cold. Not just cold, but cold. He had at least another three hours of daylight left, and then could make camp. Of course camp would only consist of a snow trench he’d have to dig with his gladius, a bed of whatever greenery he could find (if he could find any at all) and his cloak wrapped around him. Even if he had the ability, and materials to make fire out here it would have been a bad idea. If the melted snow didn’t soak him through to the bone or melt down his shelter; than it would give away his position and bring the Icemen down on him.
He continued through the snow, dragging a second cloak behind him to obscure the foot prints that his boots left; it was good field craft even if the blowing snow would cover up his tracks in a few minutes. He clutched his left hand close to his side. All legionaries in the north knew how to use fire crafting to keep them warm, and to keep frostbite at bay. It helped, but it wasn’t magic, like everything that fire crafting had its limitations; especially for someone like Marcus who wasn’t particularly skilled with fire crafting.
He looked down at his hand; the tips of two fingers were tinged bright red with the first signs of frostbite. Unbuckling the first two buckles of his lorica, the legionaire tucked his hands between his lorica and his tunic. The fury crafted steel would retain heat longer, and wouldn’t gather snow for frost and helped his hands to fight off the frost bite.
He kept going, if he stopped for too long without shelter hypothermia would catch up with him quickly. In the distance, maybe a legion mile away, were two hills that formed a narrow valley barely big enough for two men to walk abreast through; a perfect place for Marcus to make camp.
But the time he got to those hills the sun had sunk low on the horizon; sliding his side arm easily out of scabbard with a clear ring. He began hacking at the snow in short steady strokes, careful to manage his exertion; sweating would be another easy way to earn him a place in an early grave. It would be easy if he had any watercraft to his name; he did, but not much, it would take the better part of his week to change his face. A skill that he rarely needed. He chopped the snow up, and using his second cloak scooped it out of his trench piling it up on the north and south ends as a good windbreak.
“There,” He said shivering, “Now if only I had a crow begotten fire and something more than trail rations this might actually be quite comfortable.” He laid down his cloak on the bottom of the trench and hopped in. It wouldn’t be comfortable, but it would do the job for the evening.
Marcus could only hope that he was close to the Icemen’s camp. Another day or two like this and he wouldn’t have enough food to make it back, at least not with all of his fingers intact. Tossing his leather pack down into the trench he headed for the top of the taller, north hill. He scanned the horizon for any trace of the enemy camp. Knowing all too well that that the Icemen wouldn’t need a fire (or potentially shelter); he had little hope of spotting their camp. What hope he did have lay in the captives; more so in their treatment at the Icemen. The Icemen had proven themselves, since the founding of Alera, more than capable, and even brutal in battle; but surely even those savages would have respect for the women and children that they took. They may be beasts but they should still realize that if they hurt the hostages they took from the lumber camp that the entire might of the Aleran Legions would come down upon them.
Marcus was right; there was just a thin curl of smoke that peaked over the edge of a hill only a few miles from his own shelter. It was then that he set his plan into motion. He slid down the side of the hill back to his trench and jumped in. Just a few feet under the surface it was much warmer. Still below freezing of course, but warmer none the less and he no longer had to worry about the bite of the wind making him colder. He pulled his pack out and grabbed one of the few trail biscuits he had left. He hoped that when he found the Icemen they would have edible food; he would have no way of feeding the survivors for the day and a half trek back to the shield wall.
Tucking his left hand in to his crotch to continue to warm it he tore into one of the half frozen trail biscuit. He couldn’t help but snicker to himself that the ice in it made it taste a little better and go down a might easier. Once he’d finished his meager evening meal he took his water skin and began filling it up with snow; he’d tuck that under his cloak as he slept and it would be water by morning. Dehydration was a soldier’s worst enemy in any climate; but most didn’t realize that it was even more a danger in the cold. And battle undoubtedly compounded that problem.
As soon as the wan sunlight disappeared over the horizon Marcus fell into a light sleep; between the cold and the threat of an enemy patrol he would not sleep deeply tonight.
~~**~~**~~**~~
The next morning came earlier than it should have; the sun hadn’t even peaked its head over the horizon (indeed it would be at least three hours to sunrise), but Marcus had used a trick once taught to him by a Cursor for waking up early. Before going to sleep he’d tapped his head the same number of times as the number of hours that he wanted to sleep. In this instance it was five, and sure enough five hours later he was awake.
Pulling the skin from under his cloak he took two long pulls from it, and took another trail ration from his pack. He had two more, and he’d need them for the return trip; he’d have to go hungry this morning.
Wasting no precious time he didn’t bother to destroy his shelter and hide all trace that he’d been there. In a few hours it wouldn’t matter; either the Icemen would be dead or he would. He took his water skin, but left his pouch; unnecessary encumbrances could get him killed at this point.
Using earth crafting to strengthen himself he started out at an easy run; even not on a fury enhanced causeway he’d be able to hold this pace for hours without tiring. With luck he’d be able to find most of the Icemen guards asleep.
His hand still ached fiercely from frostbite; the possibility that he might even lose his hand gnawed at the back of his head. At least it’ll be my left; Marcus thought, at least I’ll still be able to use a sword. It was a grim thought; there wasn’t much for a centurion with one hand to do in a legion. He pushed it out of his mind as he neared the camp.
Dropping into a low crouch, without breaking his stride, Marcus came to a large mound of icy snow that served as the palisade for the Iceman’s small camp. It was built up in such a way that if he tried going through it he’d bring the bulk of it down on top of him and alert the enemy to his presence. There was only one way built into the snow wall and it was manned by two guards.
If I’m going to lose my hand I may use it while I have it, he thought as he took the knife that was hidden in his boot into his offhand; it hurt just to grip it. He shook his hand out, trying to force more blood in it; in this task he was only moderately successful. The centurion crept as quietly as he could on the fresh powder as he neared the entrance. His gladius held tightly in his right hand he broke into a dead sprint, calling up all of his strength into the throwing the knife, he hit the first guard right in the throat. The vaguely human form collapsed to the ground; his partner turned to look just in time to find Marcus in a lunge. The fury tempered steel of the gladius tore right through the unarmored guard. Both went down with a barely audible whisper.
He continued into the camp, there were structures inside the wall made of a series of ice and snow formed into perfectly bricks. The entrances to these were narrow and forced him to his knees to enter. He found the largest of them and crawled in. They were warmer than a building made of ice had any right to be. Sleeping inside were almost a dozen of the icemen. Gladius in hand Marcus began cutting their throats as they slept. He felt no remorse knowing that if their places were switched they would have no trouble cutting his throat. One began to rouse but he drove his short sword through its chest with only the sound of breaking ribs.
He left there as swiftly as he entered. The camp was small, as were the raiding parties; but a score of icemen could kill a legionnaire in a matter of seconds in a one on one fair fight. If he hurried he should still be able to kill most in their sleep.
He crossed the courtyard into a slightly smaller ice house and repeated the same process of killing another six as they slept. Crawling back out, he heard a scream. Not a scream of an Iceman, but that of a human child. He ran to the last building, bigger than the others, with a higher room and a door big enough for Marcus to walk through without so much as ducking his head.
Three icemen were huddled in the corner standing over something or someone. The screaming child? Rage flooded through him as he charged all three of the icemen, these were both armed and armored, all other arms and armor he’d seen were at the feet of the rough beds that he found the Ice men on.
These were armored in what looked like rough hewn leather armor with metal helms, and armed with long spears tipped with razor sharp heads.
He crouched down and lunged at when he’d covered most of the distance. The prisoners all stopped to look at him; they were all dumbfounded, after the first day they’d given up hope of seeing a rescue, and now here was a centurion who’d made it through the entire camp of hostel forces and burst through the door just in time to save a poor boy.
Marcus’s sword lashed out just as the most alert of the Icemen brought his spear to bear and cut the haft of it in two. The spear tip clattered to the ground a second before the back of the centurion’s fury enhanced hand met the thing’s jaw sending it off balance. With a short swing, he brought the gladius across its neck, separating head from shoulders.
The other two turned around and thrust with their spears; able to parry the first one the second one struck him in the center of his breastplate. He slid on the floor putting his hand against the packed snow to arrest his slide. He took off in a runners sprint, heading straight for he ducked between them and took one of them down at the knee.
He fell hard; in that amount of pain he lost track of his spear and before he could realize his mistake his own spear tore through his throat and his spine, sending the Iceman to the ground. The other, in panic, began fighting desperately using short thrusts and rough chops. Even without the speed of a windcrafter, it wasn’t hard to dodge the iceman, only slightly harder was coming up underneath his breastplate to find the soft target underneath.
The mess, not to mention the smell, was noticeable.
Marcus flicked the blood off his sword before returning it to its scabbard, “It’s okay.” He told the prisoners, “You’re safe now.”
“Where’s the rest of the legion?” A young girl of about ten asked.
“I’m sorry,” Marcus replied, “I’m the only rescue you’re getting. Now help me get together all the supplies we can carry, we’re going to leave at first light.”
All the former hostages looked at him with a sense of awe and fear. But they would be safe, and hopefully by nightfall they’d be safely behind the shield wall, and back with their families.